Young Writers Society

One day

walking my way back home, I see

a dusty abandoned Cadillac

the original black merging into the rusty red

burnt in a riot or probably something else

near the broken community garbage can

smelling like dead cats and fresh fish

I can hear some squeals and barks

This is the street that my friends say villains live in

I'm wearing my faded blue T-shirt with a Superman logo

and my unwashed pair of lucky gray jeans

what could possibly go wrong

chest puffed up like a bag of chips

I feel like I'm on a treasure hunt

Its cold I pull my Lakers 24 jersey outta my backpack

but do not wear it, I carry it on my left shoulder

I walk in stamping my feet

like I'm wearing iron sheets for my shoes

and I'm walking on water, only thick with oil fluids

Nothing there, not even a breath

restless I turn my head ear to ear

and then i see...

hand-prints, tiny little finger marks

on the dusty remains

of what seemed like the window glass

of the sinking ship-like black Cadillac

It feels like the baby foot-steps

turn this dead-end into a sacred place

a secret place of the dead, end is here?

I hear the laughter of pretty children's face

in the silence of hungry pay-scales

A gush of air too pure for my city lungs

pierce my skin, too much to bear

The life of many dying millions enter me

I stand lifeless staring helpless in empty space

There are thousands of sounds louder than gun-shots

watching the clouds crimson with bursting veins

those finger marks, scar me with innocence

Its like finding a sand-grain of a known face in

the oceans of blood staining the shores

with different names, different threads and different flags

A stray rain-drop falls on my face

waking me back into the nightmare

the falling waters like time washing

those fingerprints would be soon memories

forgotten or seeped by the soil sunken under rotten leaves

Slowly I slide my hand over the glass

finger-tips dirty with festering future dreams

It feels like I'm holding hopes in my hands

Turning around, I cup my hands to my ears, the wind's too harsh

and I listen to outstretched hands full of heart beats..



- SPD

This grabbed my attention, it was well planned and It was easy to keep reading. I like this.
It had a certain relevance, all the visual referrence, comparing to a memory.
The ending left me thinking, and pondering, and not in a bad way either.

Beyond that I am at a loss.

Brilliant.

You have a lot of good imagery here, which I like. In some spots I thought things were a little weird, the way they were written, but if I heard you speak this I might think differently, so I'm going to leave those alone. One spot where you had a typo:

"and then i see..." "I," that's all.

Favorite lines:

"scar me with innocence" - so ironic, I love it.
"burnt in a riot or probably something else" - the "probably something else" did it for me.
"and I'm walking on water, only thick with oil fluids"
"turn this dead-end into a sacred place
a secret place of the dead, end is here?" - love how you manipulate "dead-end" in the second line of this pair
"waking me back into the nightmare"
"Its like finding a sand-grain of a known face" - love this line, but I didn't notice before, you've got the wrong "it's." You want "it's," "it is," not "its," possessive, although probgably you know this and this was just a typo.

And finally:

"A gush of air too pure for my city lungs" - this just reminded me of home, actually because I'm from the country and now working and going to school in Toledo, and although I like the zoo, the art museum, school, and work, I really kind of hate the city as a whole. I would like to still have that pure air. And the stars. And, etc, but this is a review of your poem, not a nostalgia-fest.

Anyway, that's what I have to say about this. Good job.
~Blue

Thank you all for your kind kind words

@ BlueAfrica - I'm glad you liked it. Yes I know on a page the lines look different and probabl;y awkward sometimes, but they're actually meant to sound like something else. I've been listening to a few Spoken Poetry artists - esp. Andrea Gibson. That woman, when she speaks she gives me shivers or tears or both together! Listen to her on Youtube, my performance style is very similar so probably my poem would sound how I want it to sound to you after hearing her.

Apologies for the typos. I'll take care in future, they harm the texture.

- SPD